


Anastasis

by historymiss



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: F/F, Spoilers, huge honking spoilers for Harrow the Ninth, no i'm very serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:47:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25708435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/historymiss/pseuds/historymiss
Summary: You’ve never been very good at sleeping, and death has never been your friend.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 5
Kudos: 73





	Anastasis

When you closed your eyes, sore as old wounds from exhaustion and grief, you truly did expect to sleep or die. You had come to the end of the story, after all. It was only fitting. Here was the tomb, and the sword. Here, the chains. The promise of rest, at the bottom of the only world you had ever really known, in the empty coffin of a monster-

Well, it was all very you.

But then again, you’ve never been very good at sleeping, and death has never been your friend.

The first touch surprised you. The whisper of calluses against the worn black of your shirt, the sudden soft heat of a body next to yours. The Body, after all, never let you touch her before. This was likely some new evolution of your madness, or maybe a dream, or a passing ghost, idly sculling towards you in the depths of the River.

You didn’t open your eyes. You were too far gone at this point, had seen too much. Whatever this was, you let it happen. The gentle pressure against your legs as something entwined with them, the careful, almost reverent slipping of an arm across your chest, anchoring you, holding you like something precious, something worthy.

The tickle of breath, uneven and warm, against your unpainted cheek.

It was everything you’d begged for, that last, terrible night in the Mithraeum, your hand reaching for her. It was, finally, at the end, a little grace.

It was, like every scrap of affection you have ever received in your blighted life, far too little, too late. 

“My lady.” Your voice was a dull whisper blunted by exhaustion. “Please- this is cruelty beyond measure, after all I’ve done, I beg you- rest-“

“Too many words.” I pressed my head against the curls of your hair, and we lay together in the darkness of the Tomb. 

I think you sobbed, then. Or maybe I did. But that’s unkind, and embarrassing. Better to say that your mouth rounded just four more words, silently, against mine.

“One flesh, one end.”


End file.
